


Apollo, Beloved

by T_Gay_Kippen



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Canon Compliant, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Pining, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 21:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20682263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/T_Gay_Kippen/pseuds/T_Gay_Kippen
Summary: Enjoltaire angst based on the song John My Beloved.Grantaire falls for the Sun, and what sort of Icarus would he be if he didn't rush to reach out for it?





	Apollo, Beloved

**Author's Note:**

> This took me literal days to write  
I tried to stick woth the lyrics so feel free to listen to the song cause it's a soft bop

Graintaire was taken aback when he first heard one of the rally speakers for Les Amis de l’ABC. Their so - called “leader” raving on about a new France, a free land. The ramblings of an optimistic child, but a child who could lead hundreds of men to their graves should his mouth go unchecked. Grantaire truly did have intent to quiet the man when he turned onto main street that day - until he saw him.

The man was like an incarnate of the same Sun that reflected off of his golden curls, the brass tone of his voice paired beautifully with the sheer belief and determination on his face. The sweat dotting his forehead must have been a mirage, as there was no possibility that this vision was truly but a man.

“Who is it that will come with me to the new world, the revolution? Who will follow me to the barricades? Is it you?” The fire in the revolutionary’s eyes warmed Grantaire’s face as they set upon him, and in that moment, he understood;

He would follow him anywhere.

He found himself following the leader to a musain, listening to his rambles over bottles of wine and cheap food. The company was good at least; a jovial group to plan your own slaughter with.

He made the mistake of sharing that joke aloud and began something he could not take back. The leader, Enjolras’ eyes turned to him, darkened and full of judgement when Grantaire came to two realizations;

1\. There was no way this man could be mortal, as even malice could never mar his face, only rearrange the divine features in new ways to remind mortals of how fortunate they were to come into contact with him.

2\. He had inadvertently became one of two things, a challenge or an enemy in the eys of his beloved angel, and had no way of discerning which.

* * *

Despite the rough patches, Grantaire was never ejected from meetings. No, Enjolras, though a beauty, had not the mercy to simply send him away. Each and every complaint was to be met with a thorough reply, energetic and headstrong. While Grantaire loved the spark, the energy within his Earthbound Apollo, it scared him how deeply the other man believed, as he knew that said belief was likely to kill everybody in the musain.

Everybody in the room was a tool for the revolution, including and especially Grantaire; happy to go play his role and die in the name of his god’s nievette. This, however, did not keep his mouth shut. Au contraire, if he could at least shake a few newcomers away from the certain doom he himself anticipated, then he had done quite enough. For unlike Enjolras, Grantaire was merely mortal, and human lives were too complex and wonderful for him to toss aside for his angel’s ideals. Each of Enjolras’ cogs had a soul, and Grantaire sought to preserve a few. Grantaire, on the other hand, was a lost cause, he believed the revolution would fail, crumble like the child’s nonsense he had imagined it to be the moment Enjolras’ words first hit his ears. For after experiencing Enjolras’ presence, he had no chance of going back to any form of life after that, so he had given in. Had given the last of his life to his heart’s childish cries for the revolutionary hero, even caring nothing for the revolution. Grantaire knew what this meant, the trouble it was just waiting to bring, but at that point, he could never simply walk away. And so he sat in the back, allowing himself the small joys of listening to the leader in Red.

* * *

Enjolras’ face was too beautiful for the despair that touched its creases. Angels were soldiers by nature, though it seems they were never made to see battle. Grantaire felt a tug on his chest as planning progressed. As Enjolras seemed more dedicated than ever. His scolding became less teasing and his golden curls more misplaced as he wrought his hands through their waves.

He was still gorgeous, but stumbling, a sight none of les Amis had ever thought possible, let alone planned for. Even so, les Amis followed, Grantaire the guiltiest of all. Even with no hope that there would be any success, for what wouldn’t Icarus do for just one chance to touch his beloved Sun, or at the very least feel its warmth, what could he do but blindly follow his love, spreading his waxen wings. The man flung himself into the ideas, desperate for Enjolras to prove him wrong, prove that he was right to put his faith in one thing. One man.

Because if anybody in all of France was to make history, it would be Enjolras, with his bravery and belief. He alone would be powerful enough to believe the French monarchy out of existence.

Even the cynicism in Grantaire found itself falling for the leader. His heart in the revolution only due to its attachment to the revolutionary. Despite his lack of belief, Grantaire found himself waving the flag, shouting the chants and participating in the upcoming war under the (ironically) skeptic eyes of his angel.

* * *

A friendship slowly blossomed between the cynic and the optimist, the two finding a way to meet in the middle for the sake of their friends. Grantaire was happy, honestly, a chance to get acquainted with his Apollo before their untimely deaths. A chance to see the Sun up close before the wings melt. The two men grew closer, when Grantaire was sober at least.

The conversations could last for hours, they both shared ideals, but differed in belief of it coming true. The longer they conversed the deeper Grantaire’s affection grew for the man, taking over his chest.

Sobriety for Grantaire got rarer and rarer, meaning their conversations got fewer and far between, making Grantaire want a drink, rinse and repeat. It got worse and the two began to drift once again, until it came to a head.

* * *

The sounds of Enjolras’ heavy moans would reverberate throughout Grantaire’s skull until the Earth came to an end. The beautiful noises that came with giving the human god pleasure were more precious to him than any other he would see.

The way the angel’s eyes rolled, back arched, Grantaire knew that there was no way he was getting into heaven and now he understood why; this was the closest to heaven anybody would ever wish for. His lips trailed down the once rouge - clad rebel and the way he shook took his breath away. This was truly a sight not made for such a mortal to embrace, he was one of the luckiest on Earth.

He didn’t know what it meant to Enjolras, maybe nothing, but it was a comfort to him nonetheless, to have held the great Apollo at least once in his arms, next to the heart the other already owned.

After the ordeal, Grantaire placed a kiss to the sleeping man’s cheek, slipping away into the night. The cynic sneaking out of their beloved leader’s room would be quite an ordeal to les Amis, after all, and Grantaire had no plans to be a part of that gossip. With a longing glance backwards, the drunkard bid goodbye to what may have been the holiest part of his entire existence.__

* * *

Lamarque died the next day.

The rebellion came to full swing, Grantaire didn’t get the chance to even admire his Apollo, for the man was now the marble statue that he had originally noticed on the street corner, an untouchable god. To believe he had put his hands on something so holy brought a twinge of shame to Grantaire as orders were barked without a second glance.

Though painful, the lack of acknowledgement was unsurprising, for deep in his heart he knew that nothing could sever Enjolras’ loyalty to his dear Patria and the revolution to set her free. Grantaire committed to spending his final days inebriated, lost and rambling even as the barricades went up and the war had truly begun. He had lost dear friends, one of which only a boy. The night raged on and he remembered none of it, instead passing out in one of the drunken stupors he was known for. If he was lucky, he thought, he would simply never awaken.

But luck never had been on Grantaire’s side. When his eyes opened, they were greeted with light and quiet, no sound other than the National Guard’s barking and the shouts of Enjolras. Of course, too stubborn to be anything but the final execution.

It was clear to Grantaire in that moment that the so - called war truly was over, and les Amis had not seen the end of it. In the true fashion of a man with nothing left to lose, Grantaire made his choice. He stood quickly, running into the room with his Apollo, even cornered like an animal, the leader held strong, a flag clutched in his right hand. Determination on his face almost masked the fear in his eyes, it likely would have, had Grantaire not known the other so well, spent so much time with him.

“Vive la république!” Grantaire’s vocal chords seemed to act on their own volition, his feet joining in and taking him to stand next to Enjolras, in front of the window. “I am one of them! Finish us in one blow!”

Nervous eyes turned to Enjolras as Grantaire extended his hand. “Permets tu?”

The shock in Enjolras’ eyes at the pronoun change lasted but a second, as he nodded and accepted the offering. Hands intertwined the two men shouted;

“Vive la république! Vive la révolution!"

And then there was gunfire.


End file.
